


Thick As Scripture (Lines In The Array)

by WaxyWolf



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Rewrite, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Ishbalan | Ishvalan Alphonse Elric, Ishbalan | Ishvalan Edward Elric, Minor Character Death, Most everyone makes an appearance, Non-Linear Narrative, Paternal Roy Mustang, Racism, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 10:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23469808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaxyWolf/pseuds/WaxyWolf
Summary: "There is no part of Edward unmarked, untagged, unlabeled, unclaimed. The parts uncertain he has scribbled over himself; refusing his father’s name and then taking it back, finding his mother’s and holding on with white knuckles.And even still, even now, after all he’s lost and won and rejected and earned, there are still pieces of himself he does not fully understand. Some days, he looks down at his mismatched hands and does not recognize the fingers attached to his wrists."Or, the story of how Ed and Al lost their names and won them back again
Comments: 52
Kudos: 235





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Sweethearts!
> 
> I will give full credits to the real genius behind the inspiration for this fic, ShanaStoryteller with her Ishvalan au. Please, give it a read! It is wonderful and incredible and all the nice words I can think of (https://archiveofourown.org/series/320582). 
> 
> The religion of Ishval isn’t talked about in great detail. Like a handful of others, I’ve based my version off of several religions, most significantly Judaism. I really liked the idea of comparing Al to the whole golem story. I also used Hebrew and Yiddish words, though I am not fluent in either of those languages, and neither am I Jewish. If I’ve gotten anything wrong or you would like me to change something, please comment below.  
> I’ve messed with some of the timeline of the series, so don’t pay too much attention to specifics. I needed them to meet and befriend Scar much sooner than in the series. 
> 
> I put a lot of my own experiences into this fic. If anyone has had the blessing of being of mixed heritage, and are unsure of where they stand, I’m here for you. Come talk to me. 
> 
> Happy Reading!
> 
> Title from “Constellations” by The Oh Hellos.

This is how the story starts, with a wooden spoon. 

Well, it started long before the spoon was ever made, long before the tree the spoon was carved from ever sprouted tall, long before the tree that created the seed that became the tree that-

Well. You get the idea. This was a long ass time ago. 

This story is about two brothers and their own little war. Or maybe it’s about two lovers and the monsters they bear. Or maybe it’s about a people silenced, a dozen forgotten languages. But who has it worse: the thousands unavenged, or the one who carries their memory?

Maybe it’s not about two brothers, and the things they never had. Maybe it’s about their mother, and what she left behind. No one ever remembers the mothers. That mothers come from someone, _ somewhere _ .

Some stories start with an epic hero, the quest for power. Some start with a kiss, or a death, or a whisper.

This is not one of those stories. There is too much blood in this one for a nice ending.

This is how the story starts, with a wooden spoon.

\-----

The wooden spoon looks abnormally small in Scar’s calloused palms, but he wields it with careful experience. He holds the spoon with one hand and the handle of the dented pot with the other. 

“It takes a steady hand and gentle stirring. The key is to keep the heat low enough, so the eggs don’t burn.” Even as he explains, he keeps his eyes on the simmering pot. Mei leans forward on her knees, listening intently to Scar’s instruction. 

“They used to make something like this back in Xing, but it didn’t have the sweet peppers and it had some different spices,” Mei chatters. She watches Scar’s spoon dip carefully around the egg whites, careful not to disturb the yolks. Scar nods in contemplation.

“Yes. The spices are what bring  _ shakshuka _ to life.  There is pepper, paprika, cumin…” He rolls the word carefully in his mouth, as if even the name of the dish has flavor. The wooden spoon twists carefully in the pot. Mei stares at Scar with barely-disguised awe, though it might be because he’s the maker of food, rather than the dispenser of wisdom. 

“Not enough chili powder,” comes Edward’s voice from the far corner of the alley, where he leans back against the brick wall. Though his eyes are closed, he’s listening for the sliding hush of footsteps, a second’s warning before they’re ambushed. Scar frowns, looking up for the first time at the young alchemist. 

“There is plenty of chili powder,” Scar confirms in a flat voice. Edward snorts, nose wrinkling in distaste. 

“I can smell it from over here, there’s not enough. You gotta add chili powder until you can breathe fire.” He mimics a dragon’s hoarse roar, hands spread wide to imitate flames sprouting from his mouth, or possibly Roy Mustang’s iconic alchemy. Mei giggles, and the lines around Scar’s frown deepens. 

“You have not eaten  _ shakshuka _ before. You know little of our spices. It may be too much for you to handle.” Ed opens one golden eye, challenging Scar with his raised eyebrow. 

“I’ve eaten shakshuka plenty of times. My mom used to make it pretty often because it’s easy. She never made it hot enough though, I always added in more chili powder.” 

“That’s not possible,” Scar insists. “This is an Ishvalan recipe and we protect our food and our culture with great pride. Only recently have our ideas become welcome in Amestris.” Edward sits up, his vigilance forgotten. 

“It’s true!” he protests. “Mom made the best shakshuka, she said she learned from her mother. Right, Al?” Alphonse nods, a simple creaking gesture. And if Alphonse agrees, then Edward must be telling the truth. Scar sits back on his haunches and glares at the Elrics. 

“She must have taken the recipe from a traveler passing through, or she made something similar. This is an Ishvalan recipe only,” Scar repeats. 

“Are you calling my mother a liar?” Edward’s on his feet now, hands on his hips. He’s taller than Scar, but only in the fact that Scar is still crouched next to the pot.

“I am saying you are mistaken, Fullmetal. Your mother knew nothing of my people, and nothing of  _ shakshuka _ .” Scar remains infuriatingly calm, even as Edward’s face grows red with anger. 

“Fuck you! You know nothing about my mother!” He looks as if he’s about to charge the sitting Ishvalan, but he abruptly turns on his heels and storms away down the alley. Mei shares a concerned glance with Marcoh, who looks just as confused. Scar stares down at the pot, watching the red paste simmer around the eggs. 

“We’re not lying,” says Alphonse quietly. “Our mother used to make  _ shakshuka _ or something very similar. She called it by the same name too. I’m not sure how she knew how, but she did.” Scar is silent for a long moment, large hands cradling the rough-hewn spoon. When he speaks, it’s with a level of seriousness Alphonse hasn’t yet heard from the taciturn man.

“Then there is more to her past than she told you.” 

\-----

Alphonse finds Edward exactly where he expects him, in the darkest corner of the local military library. The only thing unexpected is the particular section Edward’s in.

“Why are you looking up genealogies, brother?” Edward doesn’t look up from the thick book, though he must have heard Alphonse. His finger runs down the faint ink on the page, tracing invisible lines down the family trees printed on the page.

“They left out several names in this book. There are Elrics recorded in Amestris going back sixty years, but it ends as soon as we reach two generations ago, where our grandparents would be. See, there’s grandpa’s name. But mom’s mother isn’t listed, and neither is mom. There are just question marks.” 

“Maybe they haven’t updated the records yet? You know how slow it can be for libraries to get new information.” Alphonse attempts to explain, but his answer feels too short leaving his mouth. It should at least have their grandmother’s name. Edward huffs, unsatisfied with the lack of information. 

“Maybe.” He shuts the book firmly, still careful of the delicate parchment pages that chronicle decades and decades worth of history. He strokes the binding thoughtfully, as if that might release the key to the knowledge he seeks. 

“Brother?” Alphonse’s voice is quiet, even quieter than his usual volume used in libraries. “How do you think mom knew how to make Ishvalan food?” 

“I’m not sure, Al.” Edward reaches upwards to set the heavy book back on its shelf, his automail glinting in the low light. In the dim glow, the red of his coat casts a scarlet sheen over his eyes, making them a mirror of Scar’s. “But I’m going to find out.” 

\-----

_ “-why would mom have-did she-could she have lied-hidden, no, protected, no-she couldn’t-we couldn’t be-why would mom not tell us that she was...that we are-why Why WHY-” _

\-----

Pinako’s gruff voice is a sandpapery sort of comfort, even over the phone. 

“What'd ya want, brat? Winry and I have our hands full over here. Did you break your arm again?” In the background, Edward can hear Winry’s faint voice call, “ _ Is that Ed _ ?”

“Don’t worry, you old hag. My arm and leg are just fine. I’m not a complete dumbass, you know.” Edward glances at Alphonse, who’s waiting outside the phonebooth. “It’s the rest of me that I have questions about, actually.” 

There’s a moment of silence over the phone, then Pinako’s bark comes through loud and clear. 

“Ed, if you have  _ growing up _ questions you can look it up in a library-” 

“It’s not about sex!” Edward yelps. Alphonse peers at him through the glass. He can probably hear this whole conversation. “Geez granny, we do  _ not _ need to talk about this now.” Edward grits his teeth and forages forward, his ears burning. “It’s actually about mom.” 

Once again, there is silence from the other side of the line, a much different kind of quiet. 

“What do you want to know?” Pinako’s voice is much softer, having lost its acerbic edge. 

“Was she…” The words tie themselves into knots in Edward’s throat. What if he’s wrong? What if this is nothing more than a misunderstanding? But what if he’s  _ right _ ? “Were mom’s parents Amestrian?” Outside, Alphonse is looking hopefully wistful at a cat lying across the street from the phone booth. Pinako sighs heavily into the receiver. 

“...I told her she would have to tell you two someday.” The lack of confirmation makes Edward’s automail ports itch.

“Granny, where did she learn to cook  _ shakshuka _ ?” He says it the Ishvalan way, rolling his tongue over the syllables. It tickles at his memory; it’s the way his mother would pronounce everyday objects sometimes, when she was happy or in a hurry. 

“She learned from her mother.” There’s rustling on the line, as if Pinako is sitting down for a long conversation. Edward props himself up against the glass. Alphonse is inching away from the phone booth towards the cat, who’s ignoring Alphonse’s slow approach. “You never met your grandparents. Her father was Adelmar Elric. Her mother’s name, if I recall, was Zehava. Do you understand me?” Edward swallows thickly. He understands.

“I guess that explains the military records,” he comments, trying to sound casual and failing. “They wouldn’t register a marriage between an Ishvalan and an Amestrian 60 years ago. Maybe not even today.” 

“Maybe,” Pinako hums thoughtfully. Edward hesitates before he speaks next. Edward Elric has never hesitated in his life, but now here he is, stuck on articulating the possibilities. 

“What...What does that make Al and I?” 

“It makes you your mother’s children and your father’s sons,” Pinako tells him firmly. Edward snarls silently at the mention of Hohenheim. 

“He’s not my father,” he snaps. 

“Ah, so you’d forsake one half of your family for one you never met?” Pinako reminds him, sounding more tired than anything. “He’s your father, Ed. And you are part Ishvalan. Those are not mutually exclusive. You can’t trade blood for blood.” 

Outside the phone booth, Alphonse has befriended the cat, who is now nudging at his hands for more ear rubs. Edward thinks of rust-colored sigils and his hands covered in blood. 

“Yeah. Okay.” 

“Ed.” Pinako sounds old, for the first time Edward can recall. “Nothing has changed. You are still Edward Elric, the name your mother and father chose.” 

“She should have named me Jorah,” Edward mutters to himself. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing, granny.” Edward sighs into the phone, slumping against the booth wall and watching Alphonse twirl a finger over the stray cat’s head for her to bat at with small paws. “I’ll call you sometime soon, maybe.” 

“Alright. If you have any questions…”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll call you. Tell Winry hello for me.” Edward says his goodbyes and hangs the phone back on the hook. He takes a deep breath. Outside the walls of the phone booth, the world has shifted off by a molecule, or so it feels like. His mother, half Ishvalan. What does that make him? Another fraction of human, another labeled percentage of his disjointed body and soul? 

Alphonse waves to him when he exits the phone booth. 

“Brother! What did granny have to say?” The cat under Alphonse bats at his sudden inattentive hand, meowing to play. 

“C’mon Al, there’s something you gotta know…” 

Granny was wrong, everything has changed. But he hasn’t, and neither has Alphonse. Their path has always been subject to the winds of change; what’s one more rug under their feet? So what if he has Ishvalan blood in his veins? Edward has spilled his blood for his brother and his pursuits before, and he would do it again in a heartbeat. 

\-----

“Colonel.” 

“Yes?” Roy doesn’t look up from his paperwork. Hawkeye’s been in and out of his office all day with news and reminders. He expects this update to be much the same: perhaps Central Command’s alchemical scientists found something new, or another affair rumors from the office of the Fuhrer. It’s all rather banal, but he takes what he can get out in Eastern Command. 

“The Elric brothers have been in town recently.” Roy only looks up when Hawkeye closes the door behind her. That means this isn’t just a simple tidbit of information. He sets down his pen, raising an eyebrow. 

“And they didn’t stop to say hi?” Hawkeye shakes her head, handing him a file he hadn’t seen her carrying. 

“They stopped in East City very briefly, made some changes to the official government records, and left.” Roy raises his other eyebrow. Changes to official records usually concern joining and leaving the military, as well as family births and deaths. He’s mostly certain that the Elric’s crusty guardian hasn’t kicked the bucket yet, and that neither of the brothers have gotten some poor girl pregnant. Could Alphonse even get someone pregnant? Edward seems more interested in his arrays than chasing any skirts, and isn’t that young mechanic waiting for him at home? 

“The official changes just went through. Here’s the original, before it gets copied and sent to Central.”

Roy takes the folder Hawkeye offers, flipping open the pages and scanning through the documents. This is Fullmetal’s personal folder; his official military reports and missions are kept in another. There are birth certificates for both Edward and Alphonse, contact information for the Rockbells, and a couple papers from the various hospitals the Elrics have visited across their many misadventures. One that stands out is a renewal form, usually used when soldiers start families. Again, Roy wonders if Edward had looked up from his books to notice Miss Winry, but it soon becomes clear there have been no surprise pregnancies or weddings.

No, this form, dated just two days ago, is about the past rather than the future. See, it’s not completely unusual for soldiers to have their official records missing their grandparents. A lot of records got mixed up in the war, and it’s not required information when signing up for a draft. Roy’s not certain his own grandparents are on record; seeing as he never met them doesn’t remember their names, it doesn’t seem important. 

It looks like the Elrics have uncovered their grandparents at last. Or, it looks like just their maternal grandmother. Their mother’s father was already listed. Roy’s brow furrows. 

“‘Zehava Elric b. Harel, 1845-1902.’ Huh.” Of all things Fullmetal could have dug up out of the murky past, Roy wasn’t expecting this. 

“Sir,” Hawkeye says hesitantly, “Harel isn’t an Amestrian surname.”

“I know.” Roy flips through the rest of the folder absently as he mulls over the given information. He stumbles upon an old picture of the Elric brothers, taken before Alphonse was trapped in the suit of armor. In the image, both boys are smiling up at a woman whose face can barely be seen, cut off by the angle of the photographer. Roy catches himself searching the boys in the picture for red in their eyes, for  _ proof _ . In the lighting of the photograph, the boy’s blonde hair looks like cornsilk, bleached white gold by hours playing in the sun. If he squints, the woman’s skin looks to be a few shades darker than the children’s. 

“What does that make the Elrics?” Hawkeye asks, peering down at the photograph on Mustang’s desk. 

“Children,” Roy grunts. “Children who give me grey hair.” He pushes away from his desk, stretching his arms above his head. “And 1/4th Ishvalan, if I had to guess. Their mother’s name is Trisha, and their skin is too fair for half.” 

“You’re half of something, and you drink too much coffee to be anything but Amestrian,” Hawkeye deadpans, dutifully scooping up the open folder and closing it neatly. 

“Touché, my dear lieutenant.” Roy leans back in his seat, watching Hawkeye through slitted eyes. It’s only by years of acquaintance that she can quip about his mixed ancestry unconcerned about offending him. 

“Are you going to tell anyone higher up?” Always so blunt with her questions, this one. Roy tilts his head, studies the way the sun turns Hawkeye’s hair from yellow to amber. 

“Nah,” he decides, “I wanna see the look on their faces when the war-loving bastards get ordered around by an Ishvalan pipsqueak a quarter of their age.”

\-----

Here’s the thing about family: you cannot cut off one branch and expect the rest of the tree to thrive. You cannot choose only the most beautiful flowers to bloom, only the thickest and glossiest leaves to sprout. The tree is not segmented; it’s roots are interwoven. Turning your back to one side means turning your back on the sun for half the day. You cannot choose the foreign sands over the familiar rolling grassy hills of your childhood, the scent of baked earth and cardamom over the dusty dark of your father’s study. 

Here is another thing about family: it goes beyond the tree altogether. The people you count among your allies, your loved ones, stretches farther than the tangled roots could ever hope to reach. Family is a strength earned, something you see reflected back at yourself in the eyes of another. 

When Pinako Rockbell took in the Elric brothers, however golden and wretched, she did not do it out of charity or pity. She did it because they were family, and had been since the first time Winry had dried Edward’s tears as toddlers and told him to grow up. 

When Roy Mustang first came over for dinner at the Hughes residence, and continued to do so, it wasn’t from a sense of guilt. It was because Elicia had been calling him uncle for months, and uncles stick around. There might be whispers of a lonely military widow, of a soldier shamefully desiring what his best friend had, but Roy pays them no mind. This is family, and family is stronger than smoke and rumors. 

When Van Hohenheim leaves his wife and his sons, he doesn’t intend to leave forever. But time is different for the cursed, and by the time he realizes what he’s done, what he’s made…

Family doesn’t last forever, but history does. Heritage awaits with open arms and a half-smile. By the time Hohenheim returns home, he has written the next chapter of history, intentional or not. The weight of his burden has shifted to his sons, because history does not care if you are ready or willing. History does not let you explain. It only cares that you bear the weight. 

\-----

People practically dive out of the way of Edward’s march towards Mustang’s office. He stomps down the hall with conviction, a sort of self-confidence that can only come from adolescence and a literal iron fist. People have learned not to get in the Fullmetal Alchemist’s path when he’s stomping around Central Command like he’s going to war with his brother trailing behind him. 

“Young Elric!” 

Well, everyone but the only person with an even bigger iron fist. 

“Oh hey, Major Armstrong.” Edward stuffs his hands in his pockets, turning on his heel to face the officer. “D’you need something?”

“Of a sort.” For the first time since Edward’s met the man, Major Armstrong looks lost for words, twisting his hands together sheepishly. “Since the news of your...family came to be known to the military, I’ve had something on my mind.” Edward may consider Armstrong an ally, but he tenses up all the same. The military had accepted his testimony without too much fuss, but some of the senior staff have been giving him and Alphonse weird looks. Weirder than normal, at least, for the patchwork brothers. 

“Go ahead, Major.” Edward keeps his shoulders purposefully relaxed. He can deal with the stares and the stuttering questions from strangers. He’s not sure how he would react to prying questions from a friend. 

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” Armstrong starts, “I’ve done some things that I’m not particularly proud of during the Ishvalan War. Things I wish I could atone for. I would try to better support the Ishvalan community, but I don’t feel...comfortable approaching them; I know my own perception, you see, as much as I want to represent the ideal of manliness and honor and I didn’t feel it was appropriate-” 

“That what wasn’t appropriate?” Edward’s tone has become sharp, like the hair bristling along the back of a cat. Alphonse thinks he can smell something like ozone, even though he can’t smell a thing. The sheepish look on Armstrong’s face grows.

“Going up to an Ishvalan and apologizing. I thought it would be more comfortable for both parties.” 

“Is that what I am? The ‘comfortable’ choice? Someone pale enough that you can stand to look them in the eye?” Edward’s teeth are bared in a snarl. Armstrong holds up his hands placatingly. 

“I didn’t mean it like that-”

“Then what did you mean? That you feel bad for the people you killed and want to make up for it, but you’re too much of a coward to do it in person? That because I’m not a stranger and I’m part Ishvalan, that that makes me someone that can  _ forgive _ you?” Edward is too caught up in his words to hear the silence that’s fallen over the hall, the way other soldiers are staring at the scene. Alphonse would step in and calm his brother down, but Armstrong and the others need to hear this. 

This is not the first absolution they’ve been asked for since the truth came out. 

“Edward, listen-” 

“No, Major, you listen to me!” Edward jabs a finger at Armstrong’s chest. It would be comical, the size difference between scrawny Edward Elric and the mountain of a man that is Alex Armstrong, but the disdain in Edward’s eyes challenges anyone who would laugh at the scene. 

“I am not the person you need to apologize to. My mother was killed by disease, not gunfire into a peaceful crowd. My brother was hurt by my own idiocy, not an explosion caused by an alchemist. I was raised in a house in the countryside, not a slum or a ghetto. I can get a job anywhere I like because people don’t see my features as a threat.

“So no, you can’t be forgiven by me! You don’t  _ get _ to take the easy way out. You don’t  _ get _ to be comfortable. You want to atone? Use your rank and power to lift impoverished communities. Fund education opportunities. Hire more Ishvalans. How many brown faces do you see around here, huh?” 

With that, Edward spins on his heel and continues stomping towards Mustang’s office, albeit with more force to his stomps this time. Armstrong is left in the hall, unsure of what to say or do next. Alphonse follows at a slightly slower pace. He doesn’t need to add any more to what Edward put out into the open. When he catches up to his brother, he can see that Edward’s face is still flushed red, but with either embarrassment or anger he can’t tell. 

“That was quite harsh of you,” Alphonse remarks. Just because he agrees with Edward doesn’t mean he likes how Edward put the Major on the spot. 

“Yeah, well, he asked.” Edward keeps his eyes forward on Mustang’s door. “It’s not my job to forgive these men.” 

“You didn’t say that. You said you  _ couldn’t _ forgive them. That’s pretty different than being unwilling.” Edward doesn’t speak after Alphonse points this out. He doesn’t say anything as they climb another flight of stairs and take a left. In fact, they’re almost outside Mustang’s office when Edward says something. 

“I can’t, Al. I don’t blame them, but I can’t forgive them. Neither of us were victims of systematic genocide. Our uncles and aunts weren’t killed in the street. We might be Ishvalan, but not enough to dole out forgiveness.” Edward pauses with his hand on the door handle to Mustang’s office, looking down at his shoes. 

“Brother,” Alphonse says carefully, “have you thought that maybe, we did have aunts and uncles and cousins that were killed in the war?” 

Edward doesn’t speak again for a long moment, his hand still resting on the door. Then, without speaking, he enters the office.

\-----

Alphonse doesn’t need to sleep in this body. He spends a lot of time thinking, deep into the long nights while Edward tosses and turns in his sleep. His mother being Ishvalan is definitely something that’s been on his mind at night for the past few months. He’s had time to process that she might have had siblings, that they might actually have had family in the world somewhere. That in itself rebreaks his heart and sews it up with new hope all over again. Any of their mother’s family are more than likely dead by now.

Edward had said they weren’t enough Ishvalan. What would be  _ enough _ ? A full half, instead of a fourth? Three fourths? Pure blooded? What is enough to claim their mother and her past? What is enough to claim the deaths of their grandparents and cousins? What is enough Ishvalan blood to have the right to be angry? To roll their R’s and eat their mother’s food?

Alphonse is young, but he has seen too much violence to be innocent or naive. He has seen the Truth. He knows that in death, there are no fractions, no dividing lines. In the end, all blood runs red and plentiful and their bodies return to the earth eventually. 

In this life, his family ties may be tangled or missing, but he will never leave his brother. He would follow Edward into hell and back. God knows that Edward has already done the same.

\------

“You’ve been spending a lot of time outside recently, brother.” 

“Hm?” Edward looks up from his book, a couple strands of hair falling into his eyes. It’s much lighter than it used to be; what used to be dark, molten gold has become a faded blonde, like corn silk. Alphonse isn’t fooled; Edward can hear him perfectly fine.

“I said you’ve been spending a lot of time outside recently. Usually I have to drag you out of dark libraries and laboratories. Yesterday, I caught you  _ sitting _ in the  _ sun _ . Not reading a book, not scheming or solving arrays, just sitting. It’s nice to see you’re taking a break.” Alphonse tries not to sound like he’s accusing Edward of anything. It’s so rare his brother simply enjoys himself, much less in something so natural as a sunny day. Edward flushes, looking away from Alphonse. 

“I was just...resting. I was testing out a theory. It’s nothing.” Edward sounds embarrassed. Alphonse cocks his head to the side. 

“Well, which was it? Resting or testing something out?” Alphonse asks. For some reason, Edward looks even more flustered, tucking a lock of corn silk hair behind one ear. 

“It’s nothing, I mean it. Don’t worry about it.” Edward turns back to his book, trying to end Alphonse’s questions. In the orange afternoon light streaming in from the bay windows of Central command, his face takes on a reddish hue, as if he has spent days under the beating sun instead of mere hours inconsistently. 

“Were you seeing if your skin could get darker?” It’s an innocent question, but Edward jumps as if a knife’s edge has been pressed to the skin of his neck. 

“No!” yelps Edward, eyes wide and fingers clutching the edges of his book. “I mean, not - I wasn’t, I-” 

“It’s okay” Alphonse assures him quickly. “I’d be curious too. If I had a body.” 

“You have a body,” Edward spits out, much harsher than he intends before his tone softens. “You can test it out too when we get our bodies back.” They’re both silent for a few moments, hearing the distant clatter and chatter of military personnel in the nearby halls. 

“I don’t know why I wanted to ,” Edward admits. “We never…” Edward swallows thickly. “We never got darker when we were children. Playing outside for hours. We got tan, yes, but never…” 

“Never as dark as her,” Alphonse finishes quietly for him. The afternoon is humming with the anticipation of nightfall, of the reflection of electric lights on pavement. As one part of the city goes to bed, another comes alive. 

“We’ll never look like her, Al.” Edward’s voice is soft. He’s looking out over the city, at the transition from day to night. “No one will see us on the street and say ‘I bet their mother was Ishvalan.’” 

“Is that something you wished people thought about us?” 

“No, I...I dunno. I know there’s a cultural stigma around looking like an Ishvalan. I know we’re lucky that we’ve gotten as far as we have because we look like we do. I just wish…” The sky is more red than orange, a fading sort of deep color bleeding out over Central City. Somewhere, out in the depths of the city, waits Maes and Gracia Hughes with open arms and open hearts.

Edward’s eyes are hidden in shadow, but his hands, pale and bunched in his coat sleeves, are illuminated by the sunset. 

Of all the parts of Edward, the parts Alphonse can see and the parts he can’t, he thinks Edward’s hands are the most like their mother’s. One of them is metal, his steel fingers cold but not lifeless. His flesh hand is paler, rougher, his fingers long and skinny with calluses in weird places and covered often enough with ink or chalk that it might as well be permanent. Edward’s hands do not make pies or hang sheets to dry or tuck children into bed at night. They do not  _ look _ like the hands of Trisha Elric. 

But they are her hands all the same. They may not bake pies from scratch, but they set steaming plates or opened cans in front of Alphonse in the same manner. They do not hang laundry to dry in the wind, but they hold books and pens with the same respect and purpose. They do not tuck children into bed, but they clench into fists and swing at the monsters under the bed. Edward’s hands protect, just like her’s. Somedays, Alphonse is afraid that Edward is trying so hard to save everyone with his hands, he’ll kill himself spreading his fingers wide enough to save the world. 

When he was younger, all Alphonse wanted to be was like his mother. He wanted to be as impossibly kind, always with a wise word or a helping hand. He wanted to be beautiful like her, with her soft hair and soft hands. And when he was younger, no one told him he couldn’t be otherwise. He didn’t think too much about the shade of her skin or the tint of her eyes. She was Mom, and nothing else mattered.

But no one tells children what to do or how to feel when they do when they realize they do not look like their parents. That people do not believe them when they claim their parents in public. That one day, they will look in the mirror and realize that it’s impossible to become  _ exactly _ like mom; there is a world they had that you can only see but never touch. 

Edward’s hands only look like Trisha’s to Alphonse, because he knows how to look for the pieces of her in her son. To a stranger on the street, they would never assume that they have Ishvalan blood in their veins. That Edward has his mother’s hands, that his mother was anything but Amestrian. They do not see Trisha’s hands, they only see the paleness of their skin. 

There is power in assumptions. If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around, does it make a sound? If your mother had red-tinted eyes and you don’t, did she even exist at all? 

“We’ll get our bodies back, Al,” Edward swears quietly to the setting sun. “And you can become whoever you want to be.” 

\-----

But things are never that simple, are they? 

Maes Hughes is murdered three weeks later. His daughter cries herself to sleep and his wife promises the brothers forgiveness, but it’s not that simple. Edward cannot let go of the guilt so easily. It sticks to his lungs like oil, slick and shiny and clinging greasy to each breath he takes. It’s so thick sometimes it hurts to breathe. 

But Edward doesn’t deserve to take full breaths, doesn’t deserve fresh air without the glossy smear of shame. Hughes is his fault. Blame is different than guilt, and it’s harder to deflect when there are no pointing fingers, just a tombstone and no suspect. There might as well not even be a manhunt for the killer; Edward is sick with his guilt. 

It’s this lethargy, this stumbling nausea that leads him to seek out the least companionable of his companions. If anyone would understand loss, it would be Scar. 

The next time they meet, it’s weeks down the road. The oil slick shame has abated some, with time, but it still stains Edward’s thoughts. And there’s something new as well, something he’s never considered before. Death and decomposition has always been a medical, practical part of life. But he knows it’s not like that for everyone. He may have seen Truth, but that doesn’t mean other Truths don’t exist. He’s not about to tell people where they go after they die, because he doesn’t know either. Of all the things he’s seen, that wasn’t one of them, and of all the things he’s learned, it’s that truth is a multiplicity. 

If his mother was half Ishvalan, where has she gone? Did she believe in Ishvala? Edward knows regrettably little about his mother’s religion, and even less about what beliefs she specifically subscribed to.

So he does what he knows how to do best; he researches. He marches up to Scar, who’s sitting alone, and asks, “How did you bury your brother?” 

Scar doesn’t dignify this adolescent insolence with a response, but his glower deepens. Edward crosses his arms and waits. 

“I didn’t bury him.” Scar’s voice sounds like it’s being ground out between two stones: a rock and a hard place. “I was forced to leave his body behind, and for that I have forsaken my family name. Family does not leave their dead to rot in war.” 

“How  _ would _ you have buried him?” Edward isn’t going to let a little gravel intimidation get to him. Scar glares ahead at nothing, but he answers begrudgingly. 

“I would have brought his body to be cleansed, and buried him the next day. I would have torn my sash and worn the  _ keriah _ for the seven days of mourning. I would have stayed home and accepted visitors during this time. I would have lit the fires for him every day for a year. I would have kept his grave clean and given food in his name.” This is the most Edward has ever heard Scar say at one time. It’s almost unsettling.

“What happens? I mean, when an Ishvalan dies, where do they go?” 

“With us. We carry their lives onward,” Scar tells him bluntly. When all Edward does is blink, Scar huffs in exasperation. “People are stories, alchemist. We help to write the stories of others, and they help to write ours. When the children of Ishvala die, it becomes the job of their friends and family to carry their lives, to honor their memory. There is no separation, no distance.” 

“Huh.” This is a new perspective for Edward. He’s used to the Amestrian way of death as a journey that can’t be followed by the living. “What about the people whose stories stop before the end? What about unfinished stories?” 

“There is no such thing,” Scar grunts. “Some stories are shorter than others, but it’s not up to us to decide whether someone deserved more time. We carry the names of our families, and we live in all our mistakes, and we all die in the end. Isn’t that enough?” Edward’s old enough to know not to argue with faith, though all he wants to say is  _ it’s never enough it’s never enough what if the world is never enough for you? -  _

“Teach me how to carry them,” Edward abruptly pleads. It’s not what he intends to say, but it’s what he asks, what makes Scar squint at him. The silence stretches between them, long enough that Edward clenches his sweating palms, embarrassment climbing his spine. He’s asking a lot of his former foe, of his own dignity. 

“Fullmetal,” Scar says at last, “you have carved your story into the hearts of dozens with your metal arm and alchemy. You are carelessly focused on your goals, goals so far away from yourself. But who has carved into you? Have you met no one who has changed your path forever? How do you honor the very person you have become?”

This strikes Edward like a blow to the stomach. Who  _ has _ carved their way through him, left their mark on his life forever? Has he any scars from beyond his own mistakes? 

And then he’s angry, angry at himself for being a fuckup and at Hughes for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong and at Hohenheim for abandoning them and at his  _ mother for dying _ -

“Is that what you’re doing now?” Edward spits out, holding his stomach as if he’s actually been punched. “You honored your brother by murdering alchemists?” He knows his fury is misdirected, but it’s bursting out of him at the seams, out of all the lines and scars and percentages that criss-cross his soul. Scar’s head is bowed, his eyes hidden from view.

“I do not carry any lives. I chose to forsake my brother and any of our stories when I performed the greatest sin, to create without my hands.” 

“That’s a fucking terrible belief, that you people think alchemy is a sin!” Edward snarls. This isn’t a fight he wants to be having, but he’s hurting and Hughes gave them a home when they had nothing and he reminded them to be soft when there was only steel and he’s  _ fucking dead now _ thanks to Edward and his story was too short, too short, too short - 

“Then we are both sinners, for my people are your people.” Scar doesn’t sound offended by all of Edward’s wild accusations. He straightens his back and brushes off his palms. When he makes eye contact with Edward, there is something like understanding in his eyes. “The greatest service you can give to either the living or the dead is to fulfil a promise you have made. When someone’s story ends, we say,  _ ha'yotze m'pi'chem ta'a'su _ . Do what you have promised.”

And then he walks away, leaving Edward clutching his stomach and wondering how to keep all his promises.

\-----

Edward had asked at the Gate, about the truth of death. 

Before the arms had torn him apart, before he had been dragged into Eternity everlasting, he had asked, “Who’s god is correct: My father’s or my mother’s?” 

Truth had smiled, wide, wide, with too many small teeth. 

“If you keep asking questions like that, lonely heir, you’re going to drown in a lake of blessings.” And because Truth is both ironically and infuriatingly honest, he had then been seized by shadows and dragged screaming into the abyss. And then there had been Nothing and Everything, but certainly no god. 

Even now, even after, neither Edward nor Alphonse - or anyone other poor bastard who opened the gate - have an answer. But Edward’s not about to ask any more about his parent’s gods. He drowned once, he doesn’t wish to do so again.

\-----

When Maes Hughes looks at the Elric brothers, he sees the sun. 

They are shining so bright, the both of them illuminated by some otherworldly grace. There is a luminosity to youth, a brilliance in the sheer untapped, unlabeled possibility in their lives. He does not see two boys staggering under the weight of lines and scars and percentages. He sees two children whose futures have not yet been decided. The Elrics are genius, and they could do  _ anything _ they put their minds to. Hughes has known men who have achieved less in their lifetimes than these boys have in their mere childhood. He finds himself both thrilled and terrified at the prospect of when the Elrics reach adulthood, of the power they will have. They may save the world, or they may shatter it, but they will do it all together. 

But he is not like the men who whisper behind their hands, the ones scared or envious of the boys made of gold and spite. He does not see any harbingers of doom. Hughes sees brothers; brilliant children, but children who have been hurt. It’s easy to bring them into his home and his heart. It’s easy to beckon them in with their chaos and their kindness. No matter their power, they are  _ children _ (he cannot stress enough how young they are), and children should be reminded of things like hot meals and quilts and reassuring touches.

There is a magnetic allure to greatness, to people who will do great things. Like an innate sense, Hughes knows Edward and Alphonse Elric will do incredible, awful things in their lives. And there is a further attraction, to want to be a part of this greatness, to contribute to the makings of history. 

When the boy who looks like the sun asks you to look into something, you do it. Because Hughes knows they mean to do genuine good with their boundless possibility. It’s refreshing, to see such untested ability, such brilliance.

_ Of course _ Maes Hughes loved them. They have the same sunny brilliance he sees when he looks at Elicia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Here’s a playlist for the fic that’s basically just The Oh Hellos on repeat: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1S5xLqBHw4OBphYN2qaRPY 
> 
> Comments/kudos are always appreciated
> 
> Come insult me on twitter at https://twitter.com/sunstarsseokjin


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Sweethearts!  
> Here's the next chapter, part two of I'm-not-sure-how-many. Thank you to Bunny, who helped me edit this trainwreck, and thank you to the lovely folks who left kudos and comments <3
> 
> Happy Reading!

“Brother Yossele! Brother Yossele!” 

Alphonse turns around just as a small child almost crashes into the back of his knees. Both Edward and Alphonse make a noise of concern as a white-haired child, no older than six or seven, careens between them, barely missing Alphonse’s metal leg. Oblivious to the near injury, she looks up expectantly at Alphonse, hands clutching the hem of her dress.

“Uh, I think you have me mistaken?” Alphonse crouches down to the child’s level, still several feet taller than her. From his lower position, he can see that her eyes are red and her skin is dark from the rays of the sun. She shakes her head, pointing accusing at Alphonse’s chest. 

“You’re a man made of metal and earth! You are Brother Yossele, the monster and the magician!” She has determination in her eyes - a look Edward recognizes as his own whenever he is told he cannot do something. Alphonse looks to Edward in confusion, who shrugs in response. 

“I’m sorry,” Alphonse tells her, “my name is Alphonse, not Yossele. Are you lost? Where are your parents?” He looks around the dusty slums they were crossing through, a run-down neighborhood on the outskirts of the city. The little girl stomps her foot, refusing to be deterred. 

“You can grant wishes! My  _ Safta _ says that Brother Yossele can grant wishes, because he’s cursed for making something without his hands. Can I have a wish?” She’s stubborn. It might serve her well later in life. Alphonse can never deny a child or an animal anything, so he turns back to the girl, putting as much of a smile into his voice as he can. 

“Sure! I can try! What do you want to wish for?” The girl thinks for a moment, then scrunches her hands back into the hem of her dress and looks at him pleadingly. 

“I wish for a bowl, like the one of my  _ Saftas _ that I broke.” She stares up at him with such earnest hope, Alphonse knows he must fulfill her request.

“What’s your name?” When she gives him an exasperated look, he backpedals. “It’s part of granting your wish, I must know your name!” 

“Yeah, sure,” snorts Edward, watching the scene. Alphonse shoots him a look telling him to keep quiet. 

“Amatzya,” pronounces the little girl with great dignity. 

“Okay, Amatzya. Do you still have the pieces of the bowl you broke?” She nods, and Alphonse pats her on the shoulder as gently as he can. “Can you get them for me?” She nods again, dashing off towards one of the tin and wood houses that line the street. Alphonse stands, once again towering over the street. He truly looks like the man of metal and earth the girl had called him.

“What was that all about?” complains Edward, watching the dust settle from the girl’s footsteps. 

“I’m not sure, brother.” They move off to the side of the street, waiting for the girl to return. They could leave and forget about wishes and Ishvalan children, but the girl had given them her name. They wait for her.

She returns a few long minutes later, clutching a rag wrapped around several shards of pottery. She presents the broken pot to Alphonse with sudden hesitant guilt. Alphonse takes the cloth with exceeding care, his large hands dwarfing hers. He sets it down on the hard-packed dirt, quickly sketching a transmutation circle in front of the cloth. Amatzya crouches down and hugs her knees, watching Alphonse work. When the simple array is complete, Alphonse presses his hands against the earth, activating the array. Amatzya gasps as the array ignites, her wide eyes illuminated in the blue light. When the light fades, the bowl is whole once again and Amatzya is looking at them with undisguised awe. 

“You really can do magic!” 

“It’s not magic, it’s alchemy,” Edward corrects as Amatzya picks up the bowl, inspecting it for cracks. 

“It’s the same thing to her,” Alphonse shrugs. Edward scoffs, but even he has to admit the first time he saw alchemy, he too had thought it was a form of magic. The wonderment in her eyes is the same. She grins, hoisting the bowl in her small arms. 

“You must see my  _ Safta, _ so I can give her the bowl. Please?” She looks up at them with pleading eyes, and both boys find themselves nodding. Still clutching the bowl, she leads them through the crowded streets, towards a clay home with woven blankets hanging out to dry in the front. 

“ _ Safta _ Bina!  _ Safta _ Bina!” Amatzya calls as she dashes into the house, Edward and Alphonse following at a slightly slower pace. “There are people here to see you!”

An old Ishvalan woman appears in one of the arched doorways, a shawl draped over her slumped shoulders. 

“Slow down,  _. _ Introduce these men you have brought home.” The old woman’s voice is rough, hewn by years of admonishing children and grandchildren. Amatzya runs to her side, presenting the bowl proudly. 

“Brother Yossele fixed the bowl I broke, look! It is whole again!” The old woman takes the bowl from Amatzya’s hands with care, studying the unblemished ceramic between her gnarled hands. 

“So he has.” She fixes the brothers with a scrutinizing stare. Edward holds his ground, used to defying authority, but Alphonse shifts nervously. “One good deed deserves another. Come in, please, eat something. What we have, we have to share.” She turns on her heel, shuffling deeper into the house. Amatzya trails happily, already chattering about the blue magic that fixed the broken pot. Edward and Alphonse share a look before following, stepping with trepidation through the clay arch. 

The kitchen of the house is dim but neat, a plate of dried fruits and nuts set out on the table for guests. The old woman shuffles around, gathering tins and cups to make tea. Amatzya already sits on the ground at the low wooden table, chewing on a piece of dried apple. Edward and Alphonse take a seat at the table as well, Alphonse taking up a good half of one side with his large suit of armor. 

“So,” the old woman says, setting down a kettle on the table, “you are the Yossele of legend?” 

“Ah, no,” Alphonse admits sheepishly. “My name is actually Alphonse Elric. My brother and I were passing through when Amatzya asked us for help.” She nods, as if she was expecting that answer, kneeling at the table to pour tea. 

“Thank you. It was very kind of you to fix the bowl, even if the one who broke it is still in trouble for it.” Amatzya sinks down where she sits, looking appropriately chastised. The woman places a gently steaming cup in front of Edward, who dips his head in thanks. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, ma’am, who is Brother Yossele?” Alphonse accepts the cup of tea she sends his way. The old woman rests back on her heels, hands clasped in front of her in contemplation. 

“Ah, there is a story told about a man created by man himself. He was created when a craftsman sculpted a man from earth and stone and inscribed  _ emet _ on his back. He came to life a monster, for the creation of life outside of Ishvala is profane. His creator named him Yossele before he died as punishment for his sins.” She sips her own cup of tea, ignoring the alarmed look the Elric brothers trade. 

“But the monster was good!” chimes in Amatzya, still chewing on her dried fruit. “He wanted to help people with his magic!” The old woman nods in agreement. 

“He did. He knew the circumstances of his creation were blasphemy, but that his life didn’t have to be unholy. He used the magic he had to help those who needed it.” Self-consciously, Alphonse touches the back of his neck. On the other side of his armor lies the blood sigil that keeps him bonded to this world, his own version of the  _ emet _ . The parallels between this children’s story and his own are eerily similar. He wonders if he too is a monster, and whether he believes in the God that considers him blasphemous. 

“What happened? To Yossele?” Edward asks abruptly, staring down at his still-full cup. 

“Oh, he faded to dust,” says the old woman. “When he had done all the good he could to make up for his sins, he crumbled away. His debt had been paid, the scales balanced once again.” Alphonse shivers, the alchemical symbol at the base of his neck prickling. Edward grips the edge of the table, clearly opposed to the idea of Alphonse fading away. 

“Well, it’s a good thing Al isn’t Brother Yossele,” grinds out Edward. The old woman has a faint smile on her face, like she’s got a secret buried in the pocket of her cheek.

“A good thing indeed.”

\-----

The Elrics are curious by nature. It’s practically in their DNA to latch onto ideas and refuse to let go. It’s something Izumi Curtis only encouraged, for better or for worse. These boys consume knowledge, body and soul, and commit it to memory. It’s only natural they would turn this voracious inquisitiveness towards their mother’s culture.

Scar is, perhaps, not the best expert for questions about Ishvalan culture. He’s a dedicated zealot, knowledgeable for certain but warped in his views of Ishval and Amestris. He may not practice hatred anymore, but it remains evident in his heart and mind. Men who hate tend not to focus on little things, like traditions of sweet bread and children’s bedtime stories; the earliest and longest-lasting memories we have. 

But he’s what they’ve got, so he’s the poor soul on the receiving end of all the Elric’s endless questions. Whenever they happen to cross paths, whether for half an hour or a few days, there is always a question, or four. Scar may sigh, may glower at their stubbornness, but he secretly enjoys talking about Ishval and his native tongue, even when Alphonse gets going about the nuances of language.

“What is the word for ‘street?’”

“What is the word for ‘bird?’ For ‘robin?’ For ‘lark?’”

“What is the word for ‘respect?’”

“What is the word for-”

“There is a word,” Scar grumbles, “for almost everything, including stubborn, annoying children.” This, it seems, banks Alphonse’s curiosity for a moment’s respite. 

“What is there  _ not _ a word for?” Edward asks, pretending as if he wasn’t listening to them bicker. Scar pinches the bridge of his nose.

“There is a word in our language that means ‘the heat of the sand after the sun has gone down.’ There is no such equivalent in Amestrian. But Amestrian also has words that do not exist in Ishvalan. In my native language, there is no word for ‘out of body experience’ or for ‘planets.’” 

“What do you mean, ‘out of body experience?’ There’s no real singular word for that in Amestrain either,” Alphonse points out. 

“There is no such concept in Ishvalan. The body is whole, complete, no matter your age or condition. Body does not refer to the physical state of being. Even when someone dies, their bodies are carried forever, in this sense.” 

“But,” Edward interjects, looking much more interested than he was before, “What about the psychological response, of  _ perceiving _ to be outside your own body? Is there no concept of that either?” Scar’s eyebrow furrows, but he looks less angry than before.

“Our healers have recorded this phenomena for years, a response to fear or to physical condition. But they do not conceptualize it as leaving the body, but rather as going into a deeper layer of consciousness. One cannot perceive to be outside their body if that isn’t an idea that exists for them.” Scar takes a moment to chew on his cheek, thinking deeply. 

“It’s the same reason alchemy is a blasphemous practice. It goes against the teachings and ruling of the kingdom of Ishvala. To leave one’s body is absurd, just as alchemy is. How can one create something from nothing? How can you be anything other than human?”

Edward snorts, “Oh trust me. You’d be surprised how inhuman some people are.” His tone is sad. Scar does not ask.

Another conversation, miles away from the previous:

“Are we born sinners, Mister Scar?” It’s Alphonse again, his hunger unslaked. Scar pauses what he’s doing - tying down the top of his pack securely - to look up at the boy in armor. 

“Why do you ask?” Though these boys are damned, they are children. Scar does not forget this, though he would have once. He will not forget again. 

“Well,” Alphonse balks, “My father wasn’t of any faith, but the Rockbells were, and their books always called people born sinners. That we are born unclean, tainted, and that’s why we have to act a certain way, to atone.” What a perfectly Amestrian philosophy, to assign blame at birth. There is always someone to point fingers in Amestris. Scar sighs deeply. 

“No, the children of Ishvala are not born unclean. Neither are any other people, regardless of faith. No child is born with the crimes of the past on their shoulders. We must perform certain duties and act in certain ways because that is what Ishvala wishes, and we are dutiful children.” 

“But sometimes people disobey, right? Children don’t always listen to their parents.” Perceptive as always, that Alphonse Elric. 

“Yes,” Scar concedes, “sometimes children disobey, but that doesn’t mean they are not the sons of their fathers. Like myself, I have fallen out of favor with my god. I have forsaken my name and most practices. But that does not make me not the son of Ishvala. Do you see? We are not born sinners, we have no threat of eternal damnation hanging over our heads to make us fall in line. We lose our names and our privileges when we stray from the family, but that does not make us  _ not _ family.” 

Alphonse has gone quiet, his usual onslaught of questions tided over. Scar finishes tying his pack, then looks back to the suit of armor in the corner. 

“Can you ever return? Could you ever take your old name and join your faith once again?”

“In theory,” Scar admits. “It’s unheard of, but I could choose to repent for my actions and earn back the name I once held.” He stands up, shouldering the backpack. “But if I should take my name back, I also would take back all the people I used to carry. I would be carrying all the people I have killed as well. Can your father shoulder the weight of the people he’s hurt?” Alphonse looks up abruptly, surprised at the mention of Hohenheim. He may not have said it, but Scar knows the boy was talking about his father, if those who leave us can ever return.

“How - I didn’t say, uh, he-” 

“It’s clear in your voice, he’s been on your mind.” Scar brushes off the boy’s fumbling speech. “It is normal, to want those we’ve lost, to return to our family. But do not get your hopes up. The setting down of the weight is relieving to some. He may not want to reclaim it.” 

And another conversation, in the far north of Briggs: 

“What’s the word for ‘fire?’” Edward asks sarcastically, rubbing his hands together. It seems to be a learned habit; Scar’s not sure how much warmth can be generated from a metal hand. But the boy looks almost pitifully cold, strong as he stands in his coat and automail, so Scar answers, matching Edward’s sarcasm. 

“It comes from our word for ‘purify.’ I’m sure you’ve asked about that one already, so try and derive it yourself.” Edward waves away Scar’s jabs, latching onto the more interesting piece of information. 

“‘Purify?’ Why is that? Is fire a ritual substance?” Scar nods once. Edward presses further, “Why fire? When is it used, and for what?” 

“So many questions, Fullmetal. Can you not bother someone else?” Scar complains, though there’s no real irritation behind his words. 

“I could,” Edward shoots back, “but I’m asking you. When is fire used in ritual and why?” 

“You are singularly the most annoying children I have ever met, and I used to watch my aunt’s five children for her,” grouses Scar. Edward remains unmoved. Scar rolls his eyes. These golden children make him feel old and act young. 

“Alright, if you will shut up, I’ll tell you. It is like this: water is blood. Water carries memory and our life and our sins. Mistakes and sins are a part of life, try as we might to avoid them. Fire is clean. It cooks our food so we do not get sick. The sun’s fire helps our crops to grow. It leaves nothing untouched. Fire is used to mark transitions in one’s life, a pure and fresh start to the next stage of life’s journey.” 

“Like what?” Edward doesn’t look quite so pitifully cold anymore.

“Weddings,” Scar grumbles. “We use fire at weddings. It’s tradition for the bride and groom to dance inside a circle of fire, to show how they are dancing through the rest of their lives together.” 

“That’s a lot cooler than any of the weddings Winry talks about,” Edward mutters, looking a little pink in the cheeks. It must be the north wind. “What else?” 

“Births and deaths, especially for deaths by disease. For births, the parents light a candle when the child is born. It’s a superstition that the longer the candle burns, the longer the life of the child. For that reason, incredibly tall candles are sold for lucky births. But that’s just an old wive’s tale. As for deaths, we do not usually burn bodies, we bury them. But sometimes, if the death was particularly violent, we burn down the house to cleanse the anguish from their story. If the person died of disease, then the fire serves two purposes: to destroy any remnants of the disease so that it doesn’t spread, and to cleanse their body of sickness.” 

Edward is quiet for a long moment, with none of his usual commentary. Scar’s only a little worried the boy has frozen his lips shut when finally he speaks. 

“We burned my childhood home, when Al and I left to join the military. My mother had died of disease in that home. It was also the same place we...we tried to bring her back. We didn’t want anything stopping us or holding us back. We wanted nothing to return to.” Edward’s voice has lost its caustic edge. Scar’s frown deepens. 

“Burning the place where you committed the ultimate sin was probably for the best. Fire has put both your soul and hers to rest.” Scar knows his condolence is empty in the face of grief this large. It was empty for him when his brother died. Edward laughs hollowly. His eyes look too old for his slight frame.

“I’m grateful every single day that we failed.” He looks up at Scar with those ancient eyes, and the Ishvalan man feels a chill down his spine that has nothing to do with the north wind. “Maybe you’re onto something, that sinning is a part of life. Maybe, there’s hope for Al and I after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading
> 
> Comments/kudos are always greatly appreciated
> 
> Come insult me on twitter at https://twitter.com/sunstarsseokjin


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Sweethearts!
> 
> This chapter is a short one, but I hope you enjoy. I'm thinking there should be...five chapters total, in the end? I guess we'll see.
> 
> Happy Reading!

“Colonel!” The door hits the opposite wall and Roy winces. “Here’s the report from last week.” A messy stack of papers lands on his desk in a heap, spilling out of their manilla folder. Edward Elric stands in the doorway to Roy’s office, cloaked in his standard red coat and look-how-I-give-no-fucks aura that teenage boys perfect. Roy sighs and slides the folder closer to himself. He notices a bloody smudge in the corner of one of the pages, and sighs again. 

“Did you get yourself injured on this one, again?” Roy asks, exasperated more than worried. Maybe a year ago he would have fretted, but this is Fullmetal. He knows how to take care of himself, and even if he didn’t, he’s not stupid. Well. Most of the time.

“Nah, not really,” Edward grunts, sniffing uncouthly and sitting heavily on Mustang’s couch. Roy gives him a look that tells him he’s not buying it, resting his elbows on the desk and lacing his fingers together. 

“Not badly hurt,” Edward backtracks. “I cut myself on some metal when I got thrown against a wall. No big deal. I’m fine, anyways.” It’s only then Roy notices the lump of a linen bandage wrapped around one of Edward’s hands. He had mistaken it for one of Fullmetal’s gloves. He wonders how deep the cut is, how long it was until Edward got around to looking after his own wounds. Edward must notice Mustang staring because he clenches his injured hand and stuffs it under his leg. 

“How did you get thrown...No, nevermind. I don’t want to know. Nice work.” Edward sniffs and shrugs again. Roy can see the shadow of Alphonse Elric standing just outside the office door, waiting ever so patiently for his brother. He glances back down at the mess of papers, the smudge of dried blood. 

“I’ve heard you’ve updated your military records recently,” Roy says, not letting anything unusual slip into his tone. 

“I corrected a mistake. They didn’t have my grandmother’s name on record.” Edward, always in motion, always planning something new, has suddenly gone very still. He’s waiting for Mustang’s next move. Roy hums in confirmation. 

“Trisha Elric’s mother. Zehava isn’t a name you hear everyday, is it?” Roy remarks. The game is up. Edward bristles. 

“It would be, if the military hadn’t ki-” 

“Do you know,” Roy interrupts, “my mother’s name, Fullmetal?” This brings Edward to a full stop, his mouth still open to throw barbs at Mustang. Roy sits at his desk calmly, waiting for Edward to answer. Edward shuts his mouth with an audible click, then shakes his head. 

“No, I don’t.” 

“It was Frieda. Lovely woman. Died when I was a baby and left me to the care of my aunt. Less lovely of a lady, but a strong woman. She taught me how to pickpocket by the time I was eight.” Edward huffs impatiently. 

“I don’t see what this has to do with my mother.”

“It doesn’t.” 

“Then why the hell-”

“-Do you know what I was called in grade school?” 

“ _ What _ ?” Edward looks like he’s barely containing his frustration, but he’s still sitting on Mustang’s couch, so Roy counts that as a win. 

“Dog eater.” Roy’s lip curls, remembering the mocking tone of his peers, the shame and anger that had sat in his lap as he had endured the humiliation. Edward nods sympathetically. 

“Kids are cruel.” From his tone, Roy assumes Edward wasn’t exempt from school yard taunts. Imagining a smaller version of the Elric brothers is disconcerting, though they were hardly more than children when Roy first met them. 

“I haven’t eaten dog, but that’s not the point. They didn’t care if I had or hadn’t. It was the color of my hair, the slant to my eyes. They didn’t care that my mother’s name was Frieda, like any other Amestrian mother, or that I was only half, or that I was born here and had never been to Xing. They called me names because my name didn’t matter; my face mattered more. I guess I should be flattered they paid that much attention. Not everyone realizes I’m half-Xingese.” Roy intends to end in a lighthearted manner, but it falls flat. Edward is studying him with his head tilted to the side. 

“Are you telling me it’s okay my mother’s name was Trisha, Colonel?” His tone isn’t condemnatory. Edward is listening now, in a way he hadn't been before. 

“I’m saying it’s okay that her name was Trisha, instead of something else. And that your name is Edward. The names we carry, they don’t define us.” 

Roy remembers being young, the foreigner in his class. He remembers wishing for different eyes, for a different family. And then, when he got older, he remembers wishing for a different name. As he had learned to carry his features with pride, he had lost respect for his Amestrian name. Such a western name wasn’t fitting for him, wasn’t what he deserved.

Aunt Chris had smacked him upside the head when she had found out he was telling strangers to call him Li Tao. 

“Your dead mother gave you that name, and I expect you to be grateful. What, you wanna be Xingese now? You wanna let those bullies tell you how to look, what to call yourself? Show some goddamn self-respect.” She had snorted, going back to scratching notes in her ledger. 

“I’m half! I want to show people that I am!” Roy had been 14 and defiant, about to enroll in the military academy. Aunt Chris had scoffed. 

“Roy-boy, people are going to look at you like you’re an outsider your whole life. But you can either tell them who you are, or show them what you intend to do.” 

Aunt Chris’s pen had paused, and she had fixed him with a scrutinizing stare. “Your grandparents came here to give you a better life. They named your mother so that she wouldn’t stand out. But you want to stand out, don’t you? You want to do great things?” Roy had nodded furiously. 

“Then  _ show _ me.” 

Back in the present, Edward Elric sits on the couch in his office and scowls, looking so much like the memory of Roy at a similar age. Mustang can’t help but smile.

“You can either tell people who you are, Fullmetal, or you can show them what you intend to do,” Roy repeats, the words themselves tasting like the cigar smoke that permeated Aunt Chris’s establishment. Edward frowns at his lap, shuffling his hands together. For someone with a metal arm, he’s surprisingly gentle with it, his motions thoroughly human. Not for the first time during this conversation, Roy is reminded of just how young the Elrics are. 

“Okay,” Edward says quietly. Then, after a long pause, “My brother and I are heading out west. We’re chasing rumors, but…” 

“I get it. Go, get some rest before you leave.” Edward gets off the couch, and Roy busies himself with organizing the papers in the file. As leaves, Edward pauses. Roy could be wrong, but he thinks he hears “thank you” spoken in almost a whisper before the Fullmetal alchemist is gone, and the brother’s silhouettes fade. Roy smiles to himself.

\-----

“There was once a man who lived among the sands of Ishvala.” Edward squirms in Trisha’s lap, already restless. 

“Is this another story about dad? I don’t wanna hear about him again.” She smooths a wayward strand of hair back from his forehead, the motion settling him briefly. He practically glows under her attention, always hoping to impress her. She both hopes for and fears for the day when he surpasses her in wisdom, when he won’t need her anymore.

“No, it is not about your father. Listen now. 

This man’s name was Jorah, and he was clever of mind and quick of hand. His whole village respected him greatly. He was always tinkering with his inventions and helping the people of the village. 

One day, Jorah built a ladder that could stand upon the unstable sands, so that the people could gather from the date palms without help. “Thank Ishvala!” the people cried. “You are the most clever man alive!” And Jorah was happy with his blessings.

Another day, Jorah built a series of clay pipes, so that the people could gather water without walking many miles to the nearest well. “Thank Ishvala!” the people cried. “You are the most clever man alive!” And Jorah was happy with his blessings.

Another day, Jorah built a tower tall enough to touch the edge of the sky, and brought back a piece of a cloud. The cloud rained for two days, and the crops grew two times bigger than usual. “Thank Ishvala!” the people cried. “Surely, you are most clever man alive!” And Jorah was happy with his many, many blessings.

Jorah’s inventions did not go unnoticed. When a nearby king heard of all the amazing things Jorah could do, he had his soldiers take Jorah from his village. They brought him to the palace, and the king said, “I have heard you have done many wonderful things, and made many useful inventions. I too want wonderful things. I will give you many riches. You will stay at my palace, and make me inventions. You will be rich, clothed in linen and silks, fed only the best fruits and soft breads, as fitting for the king’s inventor. You shall never want for anything again.” 

But Jorah did not want fine silks and soft bread. This king did not worship Ishvala. This king took his blessings for granted. He wanted to go back to his workshop in his village and tinker with more of his inventions and make more things to help the people. 

But he knew he could not refuse the powerful king, so he agreed to make him some of his wonderful creations. First, he made the king a golden sand lark to sing beautiful music whenever he wanted. Then, he made the king a cup that would never be empty of wine. Finally, he made the king a knife that would cut cleanly through wood and stone.”

“How is that possible?” Edward protests, face screwed up in young indignation. “A knife can’t cut through stone. A cup can’t always be full, that’s against the law of equivalent exchange.” 

“Jorah was a very clever man, and he wanted to please the king. Listen now, Ed.” Edward settles down once again, shooting a glance to where Alphonse sleeps on the simple cot a few feet away. Even so young, Alphonse is Edward’s primary concern most of the time. 

“When Jorah gave all these things to the king, the king was delighted,” Trisha continues patiently. ““You have made me many wonderful things! Make me more of these things, so that I might be the most wonderful king in the world!” But Jorah did not want to make more inventions for the king and so he told the king, “No. I do not want your gifts. I would like to go back to my village and worship Ishvala.” The king did not like that. He did not want Jorah to leave or to worship his God. He wanted all the wonderful things to himself. So he locked Jorah away in a tower in the middle of a lake of blessings, a lake so deep no one could swim across it. “You will stay here until you make me wonderful things,” the king told him. “You will have anything you ask for, but you cannot leave, and you cannot pray to your God.” So Jorah spent many days in the tower, dressed in linens and silks, eating fruits and soft bread. But he never made a thing. He refused to make a single invention for the greedy king.” 

“Why couldn’t he just build something to get out? If he’s so clever, why couldn’t he just escape? Did he use alchemy?” 

“Oh, he did build something, but not with alchemy. Jorah and his people saw alchemy as the power of only Ishvala, something that only their God could do; to create and destroy, to build without one’s hands. Jorah was just clever of mind and quick of hand. 

He knew he could not swim across the lake, nor was he strong enough to get past the guards. Instead, he went before the king and said, “My king, I am sorry. I will build you my inventions. Please let me use your books and your tools.” The king was excited Jorah would finally make him wonderful things, and so he happily let Jorah read and use whatever he wanted.

But instead of building something for the king, he built himself a boat to cross the lake. Jorah had never seen a boat before, as there were no seas in the desert, but he had the king’s library and his own cleverness. In a week, he had built a boat of paper on a wooden frame. To make it waterproof, he used duck fat and rubbed oil along the seams to keep the water out. 

When the boat was complete, Jorah took it to the lakeshore before dawn. He was scared that his boat would sink, as it was only made of paper, but he was more scared of a life trapped in a tower. But when he put it in the water, it did not sink. He thanked Ishvala for his good fortune. As the sun rose over the hills, Jorah began to cross the large lake. He had never seen so much water in his entire life, and his cleverness and curiosity wanted him to try to swim, to see what he could make with so much water. But he knew the animal fat would soon wear away from the paper, so he kept going. 

When the king awoke and saw Jorah halfway across the lake, he was furious that he had been outsmarted. He stood on the opposite shore, snarling and shouting and looking like a fool. Now, Jorah was a very clever man, and he knew that he was very clever. He was amused that he had beat the king. He began to shout back, rowing in circles to show off his invention. “Look at me, oh greedy king!” he shouted. “I am too clever for you! Because of my blessings, I can escape from any place!” As he rowed in circles, the fat around the seams of the boat began to wear away, and the paper boat began to soak up water. It grew heavier and heavier, until Jorah could row no more. Frightened, he tried to paddle to shore, but it was too late. The boat fell apart and sank, and so Jorah drowned in all of his blessings in the lake.” 

Edward waits for more of the story, but when none comes, he frowns deeply. 

“Is that really the end? He dies?” Trisha nods serenely, and Edward crosses his arms. “He can’t die, he’s the hero!” 

“Do heroes live forever? Do heroes take their blessings for granted?” Edward’s pout grows, opening his mouth to argue when Alphonse hiccups, a small noise from the cot. Edward immediately turns to his little brother, protests forgotten. He slips off her lap and leans over the cot as Alphonse blinks sleepily up at Edward. Edward peers curiously down at him, eyes wide in wonder. 

“Do you think he’s hungry?” Edward turns to his mother, Alphonse burbling happily at his big brother. Trisha brushes off her lap and stands, walking over to smile at both her boys. 

“Let’s get lunch for everyone, hm?” She herds Edward towards the kitchen, picking Alphonse and resting him on her shoulder. Her blessings, full of cleverness and gold. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for reading!
> 
> As you can probably tell by now, I try to update once a week, so stay tuned. 
> 
> Comments/kudos are the fuel on which this shitpost-creating-brain runs on
> 
> Come find me on Twitter at https://twitter.com/sunstarsseokjin


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Sweethearts!
> 
> I hope you guys are doing well. This quarantine is long, but the sun has started shining again where I live. We gain daylight, we don't lose it. Keep your head up.
> 
> Happy Reading!

Trisha Elric gets called many things as a child. 

Her mother calls her “Trish-leh” and “baby,” and her and her sisters “ _ shaina maidelach _ .” Her grandmother, the one who gives her honey candies when they visit and lets her play in the scrub brush of the neighborhood, calls her grandchildren her “ _ shaina punim _ .” Her father calls her his little angel, or just Trisha. They have to play quietly when he’s home. 

“Ah,” her grandmother likes to say, petting Trisha’s hair with a wrinkled hand, “my many blessings with shiny faces.” Her skin is thin and tanned, like the potato peels in the bottom of the sink. Trisha’s hands are the color of the coffee and milk in her father’s mug every morning. Trisha likes her hands: how they fit around apples and oranges to hand to her mother, how they fold in her lap during prayer, how her small but deft fingers can run along the grooves of the brick driveway. She does not care that her hands are not her mother’s or grandmother’s hands. She does not care that her hands are not her father’s hands. 

At first, she had thought that all fathers and mothers were like hers, that all fathers were dark-haired and fair and all mothers tan and red-eyed. But all the other daughters at school don’t look like her, and she begins to think maybe it was her family that was odd, not theirs. 

Trisha is the coffee leftover in her father’s mug, milk and coffee. She is not the pale, blotchy-red cheeks of the girls around town, the ones with golden hair. Her own hair is dark, like her father’s, long and smooth and plaited by her mother’s skilled hands each morning. 

She is called dirty, mud girl, and foreigner in school by the time she is seven.

But she is strong. She is made of earth and the songs her mother hums in the kitchen and her father’s pipe smoke, and she does not bend towards the hatred in other’s hearts. The children of Ishval carry stories, not anger. But she does know, with acute awareness, that she will never be the girl with perfect gold curls. 

When she’s older, she is called “a beautiful young woman,” “ _ shayner maidel _ ,” and “exotic” by strange men on the street. She meets the Ishvalan daughters of her grandmother’s friends, and finds herself on the sudden and abrupt opposite from where she once stood. At once, she is too pale, too Amestrain to belong to their circles. They treat her with caution, as an outsider, but they do not call her names and for that, she loves them and hates them in equal measure. If only they said aloud what she knows they are thinking! Her hands are not her mother’s! She has known this!

“Trisha, bubbelah,” her aging grandmother says, “your mother may have married that Amestrian man, but you are a child of Ishval. Don’t listen to the  _ narishkeit _ , listen to me. Your hands are that of the earth, see how the flowers blossom when you touch? Ah, my blessing, you are strong. Do not forget who you carry with you, who you have become.” 

And then she meets Van Hohenheim, and he does not call her exotic. He does not compare her to mud or chocolate, or ask about her heritage before she can draw a breath to give her name. He does not put milk in his coffee. He does not expect her to act like anyone at all. He calls her lovely, and darling, and beautiful, and it isn’t a hardship to fall in love with him. 

Van is like fire. He is smarter than she can ever dream of becoming. He almost doesn’t know what to do with his intelligence; it spills out of him in fits and bursts of sparks. She loves to watch him ignite, to be consumed by a topic that’s caught his attention. It is no hardship to move to Amestris with him. It is no hardship at all to bear his children.

Between the earth and fire, was there ever any question that their children would be made of precious metals and blessings? Was there ever any question that their sons would be molten?

\-----

Xerxes stands taller in real life than in Edward’s imagination. Maria Ross is alive, and Colonel Mustang has been vindicated. Out of the harsh glare of the sun, the sand shifting under his boots, Edward finds it in himself to forgive Roy Mustang. 

Forgiveness is not something he thought he could feel for the older man. Animosity, annoyance, frustration, sure. Respect was a hard one to swallow, but Edward has come to hold Mustang in high regard. But forgiveness? Something he thought of as such a soft emotion, something reserved for saints and those dramatic radio plays. There is no forgiveness in this line of work, for the dogs of the military. There is only acceptance of past actions, of orders given, of blows taken.

Edward thinks of acceptance, and the actions of his country in the vast, pockmarked shade cast by the crumbling ruins of Xerxes. The sand is cool under his flesh hand, shifting under both his palms. It’s been a long, hard journey into the desert. Edward unscrews the lid to his canteen, taking a quick, unsatisfying sip of lukewarm water that tastes of iron. There’s still the walk back to Amestris to consider, and Edward doesn’t want to be lost in the desert without at least some water. 

It feels a bit like stepping out of time, out of the ever-looming shadow of the Promised Day. Here under the harsh sun, there are no bloodstained shadows and creeping horror; just the faint echo of pain and terror off the ruins that make Edward more sad than scared. Whatever happened here happened a long, long time ago. These people are long dead, leaving behind only plaster ghosts, no more blood to lose. The people of Amestis are alive, still laughing and screaming, still with plenty to lose. 

He allows himself to imagine a far distant future, about a boy walking through the ancient ruins of Central City. The warped iron, cracked stone, half buried under earth and vegetation. He imagines the grand buildings brought low, the streetlamps bent, the walls broken; too old to even hold bodies or memory of The Promised Day. He imagines that boy walking through the ruins, so disconnected from the life that used to brim from every brick. 

He can’t let that future happen. He  _ won’t _ .

Lifting up a cupped hand full of sand, he watches it pour from his palm down to become lost among the countless grains. Edward thinks how similar Xerxes and Ishval are, how the people of the desert always seem to lose to powerful, hungry men. 

And then a second realization, staring up at the worn painting on the side of a slumping temple wall. The world may be made up of individual stories, of people in specific places and times, but they’re all interconnected. Actions create reactions and empires rise and fall. The world ends again and again. The children are born to carry it again and again.

He feels connected to Xerxes and its ghosts, the strange haunting scripture written on its walls. In this forgotten place and its forsaken gods, the eyes of fate have turned their eyes onto this golden boy, the last heir, the genius son born of the sands.

Standing linked to the ruins, Edward’s reminded of something his mother would say, something she claimed her own mother would repeat: 

“ _ Tsédek tsédek tirdof _ ” 

Justice, and only justice shall follow. 

\-----

The firelight makes Hohenheim look old. 

From the story he’s just told Edward, if it’s to be believed, he’s even older than the flames make him look. Edward’s still reeling a little, his head a mess of Xerxes and the Dwarf in The Flask and the origins of the Philosopher’s stone. It means in some strange, perverted way, he’s related to Father and the Homunculi, though he questions the use of the word “related”. Again, it comes down to blood and stories. 

_ God damn it _ , Edward thinks.  _ This fucker almost makes me feel bad for him _ . 

“I can understand why you have such a strong animosity towards me,” Hohenhiem says quietly, staring forward into the embers. “I left you and your brother behind. I broke my promise to your mother. But I hope you can also understand why I didn’t intend to do so.” There is a long stretch of quiet, broken only by the crackling of burning logs falling into each other.

“...Why Ishval?” Edward asks, after letting them both soak in the silence. “Why her?” Hohenheim blinks in surprise. Of all the questions he expected from his son, an explanation about Trisha was not it. 

“I ended up in Resembool when I was researching ways to keep Father dormant. She caught my eye, for there weren’t many Ishvalan or part Ishvalan people in Amestris at the time. As for why her, I’m afraid I don’t have a better answer than “because it was her.”” Edward doesn’t look very satisfied, but he nods for Hohenheim to continue. The older man sits back with a sigh, turning his thoughts to the foggy past, of the first time he saw Trisha Elric. 

“She was standing by a sheep paddock,” he recalls fondly. “With her hair tied back. She told me I was going the wrong direction for the conservatory, then called me a fool for hiking in wool in the summer’s heat.” He laughs quietly, privately, and Edward shrinks in on himself. He’s never seen Hohenheim so vulnerable in any regard. It’s a brutal shock to be reminded of how human he is, in light of just how inhuman he once was. 

“Did you ever forget about Xerxes?” Edward asks. His shoulders cover his ears as he scowls into the campfire. 

“Xerxes is long dead.” Hohenheim’s voice is emotionless. Maybe he cared strongly about the loss of his culture, of the deaths of thousands. But now the emotions are dusty, dog-eared after being pulled off the shelf and cried over time and time again. “Yes, I miss some parts of it. I mourn for the innocents who lost their lives to create that first Philosopher’s stone. But it’s...I-” Hohenheim stumbles, searching for the right words. 

“It’s not something I try to bring up often,” he finally settles on. “There’s no use crying over them anymore. I have a life to live, or whatever’s left of one. It’s not worth digging up what is long buried.”

Edward’s never really thought about that; Hohenheim living a cursed life. He’s spent so long reaching for mortality, seeking endlessly flesh and blood for his brother, he hasn’t considered the implications of living forever.

“Do you...carry them at all? In any way?” Edward backtracks, realizing Hohenheim may not be familiar with Ishvalan mourning traditions. Hohenheim looks confused, but laces his fingers under his chin in concentrated thought. 

“I have no choice. As a walking, breathing Philosopher’s stone I am physically forced to carry the souls stuck inside my body. I remember their names, of course. I have talked with each and every one.” Hohenheim looks at Edward with his tired eyes, scuffed gold gone dark. “You should be thankful of the burdens you don’t have to bear, the names not carved into your soul.” 

Edward laughs, an ugly sound. It takes Hohenheim by surprise, sitting back in his seat and leaning away from his son. 

“That’s rich, coming from you.” Edward stands, looming over the campfire despite his short stature. “I’ve spent the last year fighting to balance the names on my soul, and you don’t get to show up and absolve me. That’s part of  _ my _ birthright.” Hohenheim isn’t sure what to make of that little outburst, but he nods all the same.    


“Of course.” He never thought his son would take Trisha’s heritage so seriously. Perhaps he should have told them sooner? But it was never really a secret, not with the way she looked. If they had gotten old enough, they would have asked questions eventually. Edward jerks a thumb towards his chest, eyes blazing in the dark of the night. 

“And if Al and I are all that’s left of Xerxes, then that’s our birthright too.” He’s almost furious now, hair falling into his eyes. If Alphonse were there, he’d say something about Edward killing himself spreading his fingers trying to save everyone. But Alphonse is not there; there is just Edward, the campfire, and the fire in his eyes. “I’ll avenge them too! Try and stop me, bastard!”

And Hohenheim just sits there, struck with pride just as suddenly as Edward has been struck by wrath. Sinners whole, the both of them. Like father, like son.

\-----

Edward is both man and metal, flesh and blood, steel and ice. He is both Amestrian and Ishvalan, both a boy and a man. He is a brother and a son, a soldier, an alchemist, a catalyst. His life is made up of fractions and percentages, his very own recipe for a human soul. One part determination, one part jackass, two parts ego and three parts loyalty. A childhood spent in the countryside and his father’s library, and the rest of his life in smoke and ash and adventure. 

There are boundary lines in every part of his life, transitions, grey areas. There is the line where automail meets skin, the shapes of Alphonse’s blood sigil. A burning house marking the beginning and end of an era. There are the ties that bind him to his promises; to his brother, his country, to Nina and Hughes and Mustang. To Winry and Pinako and Major Armstrong. To the people who sleep soundly without fear of the dark, who remain rightfully ignorant of the sinister plot that threatens to swallow them whole. 

Sometimes, Edward isn’t sure if there is a part of him that belongs to himself and himself alone. He has carved up his heart, patched it up with automail and steel and gears, and burned the pieces he couldn’t give to someone else. He has taken his brother’s body. He has burned his mother’s house and sold himself to the military. 

There is no part of him unmarked, untagged, unlabeled, unclaimed. The parts uncertain he has scribbled over himself; refusing his father’s name and then taking it back, finding his mother’s and holding on with white knuckles. 

And even  _ still _ , even now, after all he’s lost and won and rejected and earned, there are  _ still _ pieces of himself he does not fully understand. Some days, he looks down at his mismatched hands and does not recognize the fingers attached to his wrists; metal or flesh, it doesn’t matter. Somedays, he looks in the mirror and sees his father. Other days, his mother. On rare occasions, his brother. 

But there are very few days where Edward Elric looks in the mirror and sees himself. Perhaps he’s grown so used to the faces and the voices of his promises, he’s forgotten his own voice. Perhaps, when he sees a stranger, he’s really looking at himself. 

The boy with too many names, with none.

The son who doesn’t know where he comes from, who knows exactly who his parents are.

The soldier who can’t save the innocents.

The brother who breaks his promises and makes new ones.

The pawn, the alchemist, the rebel, the genius, the child.

_ Geez _ , Edward thinks, scrutinizing his reflection.  _ What’d I do in a past life to deserve any of this shit? _

Something Scar said echoes across the mirror’s surface of his reflection: “ _ Ha'yotze m'pi'chem ta'a'su _ .”

“Do what you have promised.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much reading!
> 
> The next chapter will be the last, I believe. 
> 
> Comments/kudos are always very much appreciated. 
> 
> Come find me on Twitter at https://twitter.com/sunstarsseokjin


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Sweethearts! We've reached the end.
> 
> Here's a playlist I made for the fic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1S5xLqBHw4OBphYN2qaRPY?si=woD24d5HS2WkJxjYkYtMzw 
> 
> I know I said at the start there wouldn't be a happy ending, but I gave them one I feel they deserve anyways.  
> Thanks again to Bunny for helping me edit!
> 
> Happy reading!

When Roy Mustang plans a coup, he says he does it because he loves his country. Breda nods stoically and Havoc tries not to roll his eyes (though he’s touched by the statement) and Falman salutes resolutely. Hawkeye’s eyes gleam perceptively, but she holds her tongue. 

What she doesn’t say is that people start wars because anger is like fire that spreads uncontrolled. That the same fire that lit funeral pires was carried to seek revenge on the killer’s. Avenging grief may look different, but it is anger all the same.

Roy Mustang may have enough control to hide it from most people, but Riza sees through the gloves and the careful, careful mask. She knows there is fire inside Roy, one that has burned ever since Ishval. And ever since Hughes was killed, the flames have been consuming Roy from the inside out. 

We start wars for the people we have loved and lost. He may not look like any vengeful angel Riza’s read about in scripture, but the holy fire he intends to bring to the Fuhrer's door is of the same ilk. And she is not mistaken about his motivations. Yes, he may love his country and yes he may save it; but this war has been brewing for far longer than their plans for a military coup. 

This little war is all for Maes.

\------

The sky is wide, wide blue above him, so blue that it threatens to swallow him whole. Edward spits blood, squints into the light, and focuses on the figure in front of him. 

This is the end of the road. This is where all his blood has spilled and flowed towards, a river running wide under Father’s feet. It’s the end of the world, and Edward has never been more alive. 

We suffer many apocalypses in our life. Edward, at age ten, had thought that the end of the world came with the death of his mother. Then, with the loss of his brother and the agony of the automail surgery. Then, and then, and then...again and again, the world ends again and again, the ground swept from underneath our feet. Our blood runs cold and our lives will never be the same. 

And then? What happens to the man who drowns in a lake of his blessings? What happens to war heroes with no battles to win? What happens to golems with souls set free? What happens next?

Edward’s automail creaks, aches, when he clenches his hand into a fist. He knows, somewhere deep down, that he’s reached his limit. One more solid hit like the ones he’s been taking all day, and he might not get back up. But he can’t walk away from this. This is where his road, both of destiny and his own making, have led him. 

He wants, more than anything he has ever wanted in his life, to know what happens next. 

_ He wants his fucking brother back _ . 

His body, whole once again. He may not have a metal arm, but he has ancient gold running through his veins, and an iron will. This  _ thing _ , this god, has taken everything from him. His brother, his father’s civilization, his mother’s people. Edward has finally learned that he can’t undo what destiny has done, but he can sure as hell make Father pay for it now.

Maybe this was how it was always meant to be. Maybe the sons of the sun and shadows are always meant to walk alone. Maybe, in another life, Edward loses his family over and over again, the loved ones he can’t save. Maybe Father wins every time. 

But Destiny is a bitch: always has been and always will be. Destiny makes heroes of children and monsters out of men. Edward’ll be damned if he accepts anything less than a happy ending. Because that’s what got him into this mess, and what will get him out; wanting a happy ending. There is good in the world, genuine good in the most unexpected of places. And good expects something in return. 

When Edward punches a god in the jaw, he doesn’t carry just the strength of his new arm or grief for his brother. He holds the yearning of Xerxes, long bound and unavenged. He holds the grief of the Ishvalan diaspora, triumphant in their traditions however tattered. He is the shining light in this god’s great night, the revenge of every people wronged in this attempt to achieve divinity. Edward is going to raise hell to bring down heaven.

The shouts and cries of his friends, his allies, don’t distract him from his goal. Their voices grow louder and louder, a dozen - no, a hundred - lives that he carries in his punches. The sound starts to blur, to slur into what sounds like Trisha’s voice. 

_ “Tsédek tsédek tirdof _ ;” Justice, and only justice shall follow. 

This is the great cosmic revenge. This is the circle come full rotation. This is karma, or fate, or equivalent exchange. This is the rage of the desert, the slow-burning overtaking of the sands upon the ones that would restrain them. There are no scars here. There is no dividing line, no demarcation. Edward stands both alone and in multiplicity. 

He is the son of both Trisha Elric and Van Hohenheim, and he will no longer hide behind either side. He has been blessed with a brother and capable hands, and far too many people who have put their faith in him. And if he drowns in his blessings, if that’s what it takes, then he’s already sunk beneath the waves.

\-----

This must be the strangest wedding Roy has ever been to, or at least the most eclectic. It’s certainly the most enjoyable. 

Not that Roy Mustang has had much time for weddings in his life. He’s attended more funerals than nuptials, so his metric of fun is a little skewed. But there is good food, plenty of alcohol, and people who do not fake their laughter. That’s a party in anyone’s books, and Roy finds that he’s enjoying himself, the strangest part of this whole affair. 

“Y’know,” he remarks to Riza, swirling a cup of wine, “I never thought Fullmetal would be the type to settle down first, out of all of us. They’re both what, eighteen? Crazy kids.” He takes a sip from his glass as Riza laughs, a bright sound Roy would rather get drunk on than his wine. She leans forward in her chair, bare forearms resting against the table. 

“Now you sound like an old man.” Her hair is down, flowing around her shoulders. “And tell me honestly, do you think even a married Edward Elric would flirt with the idea of settling down? Do you think Winry would have married him if she wasn’t okay with his travels?” 

“A fair point.” Roy takes another sip, if only to keep from staring at her. “It was a very quick engagement, you must admit.” Riza isn’t looking at him anymore. She’s looking out at the area cleared for dancing, where Alphonse and Major Armstrong are helping to lay out a circle around the dance floor. Just beyond them, Edward and Winry sit at their own table, lost in conversation. Riza’s eyes are soft when she says, 

“I wouldn’t want to wait either. After all that, I would want to grab the people I love and run.” Roy’s familiar with that sentiment. He wonders if everyone the Elrics love are in this room now. There’s Pinako and Izumi Curtis attempting to outdrink each other, while Curtis’s mountain of a husband watches on. Mei Chang slaps a table in laughter next to Paninya, Winry’s maid of honor. Gracia tries to keep Elicia in her seat, though the little girl wants to dance and show off her flower girl dress. Havoc, Breda, and Fuery have all secured their own table and it looks as if Havoc’s taking bets on something. It’s not a very large wedding, but the room is full of conversation and good smells and Roy is sat across from a beautiful woman. It’s the best wedding Roy’s ever attended. 

It’s not perfect. As he looks around, he does not see Hohenheim, the boy’s father missing from the proceedings. Also conspicuously absent is Ling Yao, the new heir to the throne of Xing. Too busy to come, being emperor and all, Roy supposes. But life would not be sweet if there was never anything bitter, and the wine in Roy’s glass is sweet indeed.

“What do you suppose that’s all for?” Roy gestures to where Alphonse and Major Armstrong have almost finished creating their circle around the dance floor. Riza shrugs. 

“It’s not a transmutation circle, is it?” Roy shakes his head.

“I think we’ve all had enough of large transmutations recently.” As the words leave his mouth, Alphonse jogs over. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing skinny wrists. He’s still painfully thin, but his face is flushed and his eyes are bright. Roy doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone revel in the experience of being alive more than Alphonse. 

“Mustang sir! Mind giving us a hand?” Roy nods, scooting out from the table. 

“Excuse me for a second, Lieutenant.” Riza waves him away with a smile. Closer to the dance floor, Roy can see the circle is made of oil. 

“It’s palm oil,” Alphonse explains. “When I give the signal, we just need a spark, okay?” Alphonse grins at him. Roy’s eyebrows migrate to his forehead. 

“Are you sure about this?” Alphonse nods enthusiastically, waving over Edward and Winry. 

“Yeah! Wait just a second, they need to step inside first.”

“Step inside the - Alphonse, what the hell-” Roy splutters. But it’s too late, Alphonse has clapped his hands and a hush falls over the seated crowd. 

“Thank you for coming, everyone! I hope you’ve been enjoying dinner, but now it’s time for the couple’s first dance!” There’s an appreciative mutter in the crowd, and Roy seeks out Riza’s face for backup. They aren’t seriously going to dance in a ring of fire, are they? 

Edward clasps Roy briefly on the shoulder as he steps over the ring of oil. He’s almost as tall as Roy now. 

“Don’t worry, brigadier general. They do this in Ishval all the time.” 

“Oh, because that makes this all the more sane,” mutters Roy as Edward helps Winry step into the circle, careful not to let the hem of her white gown touch the oil. She smiles at Roy, though he can see she’s nervous. 

“Thanks Roy!” she calls over her shoulder as Edward leads her to the center of the dance floor. Roy shakes his head, a little flustered. Riza gives him a thumbs up. The murmurs have grown in volume as people crane their necks to see the couple. Alphonse spreads his arms wide, his thin skin practically glowing under the lamplight. 

“I present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Elric!” As the guests burst into applause, Alphonse winks at Roy. Well, it’s not his wedding, it’s not up to him to decide what’s a fire hazard and what isn’t. Roy snaps and sets the ring of oil alight. The fire spreads quickly, though there is no smoke. Sure enough, Edward and Winry begin to dance as the fire completes a complete circle and the music starts up, a haunting tune. The crowd roars its approval, clapping to the beat.

Damn. Roy has to say, they make quite the pair. The dance is fairly simple, but when all their steps are edged by flame, it looks stunning. Edward spins Winry, the lace hem of her dress flaring wide. He never lets her go. It makes Roy’s breath catch in his throat, this graceful waltz so close to the flames. 

Gold glints in the firelight, and Roy notices for the first time that Edward has pierced his ears. Simple, small golden rings shine in his ears, almost lost in the gold of Edward’s hair, pulled back out of his face. Now that he’s noticed, he can also see that Winry has forgone her usual array of metal studs for a matching pair of hoops in silver. 

“That’s all from my dad’s side,” Alphonse remarks from nearby. Roy jumps; he had almost forgotten about the younger’s presence in the spell of the fire and the dance. Alphonse gestures towards his own earlobes. “Brother wanted to have traditions from all sides. The fire dance is from Ishval, for luck and purity. The white dress and ceremony were from Winry’s parent’s side, and the gold and silver was from our dad’s side. We had to dig through a dozen history books and some of dad’s journals to find wedding traditions from Xerxes.” 

If Roy had been holding a drink, he would have choked. 

“That’s impossible. Didn’t Xerxes fall several hundred years ago?” Roy asks incredulously. Alphonse’s eyes sparkle knowingly as he holds a finger to his lips. Roy wouldn’t believe this revelation, but he’s known the Elrics for years. He’s seen some impossible things come from these two. Instead of getting ruffled, he simply nods. On the dance floor, Edward and Winry continue to spin, looking as if they themselves are made of fire and lace. For having recently regained one of his legs, Edward is surprisingly light on his feet. 

He truly looks, body and soul, whole and wholly human, for the first time since Roy has known him. There is something settled, something solid about his appearance that hadn’t been before. He looks happy, and Roy has a feeling it has nothing to do with the amount of limbs he has. This room, and Edward’s heart, are full to the brim. 

Roy has watched both the Elrics, but particularly Edward, grow up in a war. He has seen him cry, seen him at his lowest and his highest. Hell, he’s probably seen more of Edward’s life than Hohenheim had, or at least more of the important bits. He does feel some small fatherly affection towards the man he sees in front of him today, standing proud and tall with the woman he loves. 

If he’s honest, Roy didn’t think either of the brothers would make it this far, make it eighteen years into life. He had met boys like them during his time Ishval, shiny young things with an insatiable hunger and a large ego. They had burned themselves out quickly, shot down still smoking or worn away by the bloodshed and the cruel realities of war. He had expected the Elric brothers to burn brightly, but not for very long.

Perhaps Edward has learned at last how to keep his candle burning at only one end. Perhaps there is more to his story than a brief firework. But that’s what they do, isn’t it? They surprise everyone just by surviving. 

“Hey boss!” Havoc’s behind him, dressed in his familiar smirk. “We’ve got a pool goin’ for how many kids these two pop out! Wanna cash in?” Roy grimaces, but Alphonse hands over a few bills. 

“I say three in four years,” Alphonse states bluntly. Roy’s eyes bug out of his head for the second time in five minutes. Strangely enough, his first thought is  _ I’m too young to be a grandfather _ . Alphonse laughs, and Edward shoots their little group a grin, still holding onto Winry’s waist. 

Yes, there is something complete about the both of them, backlit by the wedding flames. 

Roy has always thought of fire as a ravage, as a tool for destruction and little else. But here, at the strangest wedding he has ever seen, he admits he might have been wrong. The glow of the firelight makes Edward look young again, makes Alphonse look healthy. This fire restores, brings warmth to the room. Perhaps Roy’s heart has been too cold, that he can’t recognize the heat of happiness even when he ignites it himself. 

And in this moment of realization, time frozen and holding the entire zoom cradled suspended in her palm, Roy feels just a little of Ishval slide off his shoulders. 

Maybe we all have stories to carry. We all have the dead on our shoulders, the lifelong tasks of being carved out of marble and then figuring out what kind of shape we are. And because Destiny is a bitch, we have little say in the direction we go. Stories are forgotten. Heroes don’t live forever. 

But there are moments like these, unexpected, uninvited, poorly timed and improvised. Sometimes they start with the most familiar parts of our lives, like wooden spoons or a snap of the fingers. They steal us away, rewrite our stories. 

Roy wasn’t ready to be rewritten, but nobody really is. He doubts the Elrics were ready to discover they were Ishvalan, in what seems like another lifetime ago. He knows that in some parts of him the war won’t end, and that is how it will always be. But he looks at Edward, full grown despite all odds and dancing away his sin, and feels just a bit more ready to wake up the next morning. 

History does not care if you are ready or willing. History does not let you explain. And Roy wouldn’t have it any other way, because it means his story will be undisputed, as will Edward’s. 

The history books will resound with the name Edward Elric, with that same brilliant captivation that ensnared Maes Hughes. And it will not matter if people know his mother had red eyes, because he honors her just by existing. He will not need to justify himself. 

What an incredibly Elric idea, such a  _ human _ desire, to not have to make excuses. Roy may have to take a page out of their book. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> This was something that consumed me for months and wouldn’t let me go. There were times I worried I couldn’t bring this story to the completion I envisioned, where I wanted to let it sit where I left off. But it wouldn’t let me, and though I still worry I haven’t done it justice, it stands today finished to the best of my abilities, and I am proud of that. 
> 
> Special thanks to Night and Morie for letting me ramble and ask questions. I love you both too much
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed reading. If you have any thoughts or comments, please feel free to comment below. And if you have corrections for my language flubs, please please tell me!
> 
> Comments/kudos are greatly appreciated 
> 
> Find me on Twitter at https://twitter.com/sunstarsseokjin (yes this is my kpop twitter and yes I’m ashamed)


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